


You're Lucky You're Sexy

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-21
Updated: 2009-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rafa's got that look in his eyes. That look means Novak's about to lose something - a game, a match. His pants. His mind. Something like that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Lucky You're Sexy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://aramleys-words.livejournal.com/4639.html).

"You are _so bad_ at this," Novak says. "I can't even believe what I'm seeing. I really mean that."

"Shut up," Rafa says, swiping at Novak with his free hand, the one without the Wiimote dangling around the wrist. "You should get Playstation. This game is stupid."

"Rafa, this game is _tennis_ ," Novak says, batting Rafa's hand away and gesturing at the screen, where Rafa's guys in blue were looking dejected on the split screen underneath Novak's celebrating red-shirted pair. "Look! Is tennis, you swing the racket just like tennis. You remember tennis? People say you're kind of okay at it sometimes."

"Shut _up_. This is stupid game," Rafa insists.

"Stop pouting. You're worse than my fourteen year old brother. You hit worse than him, too," Novak adds, smirking. "I'm setting this up again so I can kick your ass some more."

"You wanna _kick_ my ass, Nole?" Novak looks away from the tv screen and thinks, _oh_. Rafa's got that look in his eyes. That look means Novak's about to lose something - a game, a match. His pants. His mind. Something like that.

"You just want to stop playing because I'm so much better than you," Novak says, even though it doesn't come out quite as witty as he'd intended, with his mouth dry and his voice trembling just a little.

"Is it working?" Rafa asks, slyly.

It really, really is.

The bed is a short stumble away, Rafa pushing Novak backwards with his hands on Novak's hips and his mouth on Novak's, the stupid Wiimote bumping against Novak's thigh until Rafa pulls away, swearing under his breath, and fumbles with the clip until he can work it off his wrist. Then he undoes the strap of Novak's Wiimote with his teeth, and that is way fucking hotter than it has any right to be.

"You're lucky you're sexy," Novak says, as Rafa tosses the Wiimotes across the room, careless like he always is when he's like this, when he can't wait. Novak fucking loves that. He loves it when Rafa's impatient, demanding, tugging at Novak's clothes in his haste to get at Novak's body.

"Yeah?" Rafa says, quirking an eyebrow, and slipping his fingers just under the waistband of Novak's jeans, slightly cool and maddening against the hot skin.

"Yeah."

Novak's reward for that is to get pushed backwards one more time, so that the backs of his legs connect with the edge of the bed and he falls hard, Rafa's full bulk on top of him, leaving him breathless. Like always. He lets Rafa manoeuvre them further up the bed while he catches his breath, so that Rafa can settle himself between Novak's legs. Rafa's kisses are hard and demanding, and Novak's head is spinning. He spreads his legs a little wider, getting purchase on the slippery satin bedcover so he can push upwards against Rafa, loving the little involuntary moan Rafa gives. Novak grins, pressing his mouth against Rafa's to stifle the laughter that's rising in his throat, bright and huge and crazy like the tightness in his chest. He runs his hands along the smoothness of Rafa's arms, and then down to his waist, the curve of his ass. Rafa needs to take his jeans off like, now.

"So I get to go on top, right? Since I won the game," Novak says, and then, " _All_ the games," he amends, shoving at Rafa to make him move. In reply, Rafa lets himself go limp and heavy on top of Nole, which means that their bodies press together in very, very interesting ways. Novak can't help the little pant he lets out.

"You wanna talk about stupid Wii tennis now, Nole?" Rafa says, looking down at Novak while he raises himself up on his elbows. He's flushed and beautiful, and his hips are pressed heavily against Novak's, the heat intoxicating even through two pairs of jeans, and Novak really does not want to talk about anything at all, but he's also never really learned when to shut the hell up, so he says, "Is - ah! - is important for the victor to get his prize."

Rafa's grin turns predatory. "Yeah?"

"I - god, Rafa - yeah," Novak says, though he's starting to regret this conversation, which is taking up valuable time that he could be using to get Rafa naked.

"Hmm," Rafa says, in mock-deliberation. He presses a firm, lingering kiss to Novak's mouth, and when he pulls back, he's smiling. "Maybe we can work out something."


End file.
